Codename: Redbeard
by themightyflea
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Natasha Romanoff are saddled together for a covert mission, authorized by none other than Mycroft Holmes. Or the British Government, if you're feeling fanciful. A story inspired by experiences in the Role Play forum 'The Convergence' and GraceW herself. (Some Sherlolly and a hint Blackhawk. Maybe.)


_**NOTE: An idea**_

_Natlock (term coined by GraceW herself, as far as I'm concerned) was inspired by experiences in the Role Play forum 'The Convergence' of which I am a part of. _

_Honestly, I never thought of this before until the forum, and then I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it sooner. _

_This is basically a Natlock adventure (with a bit of Sherlolly at the end, of course, and some Blackhawk if you squint). I didn't plan on writing a fic for this, but then the Codename: Redbeard idea came up and I couldn't get it out of my head._

_A bit weird? Maybe. But I hope you like this oneshot as much as I love the idea of these two forming an unlikely friendship. _

_P.S.: If you're into Sherlolly adventures, though, check out 'Knight in a Belstaff' (a multichapter written by GraceW and yours truly). _

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes. Codename Redbeard." Nick Fury placed the file on the metal table and Natasha leaned over to take it. "Mr. Holmes here has asked for you specifically."

"Redbeard." Natasha repeated, lifting a page to look over his fieldwork experience. "Like the pirate?"

"Yes." The elder Holmes replied with the barest hint of a grimace. "I'm afraid my brother has a flair for the dramatic."

"But little experience out in the field." Natasha added matter-of-factly.

"That's where you come in." Fury interrupted. "It has been made clear to us that this is a Classified covert mission originally meant for MI6, that has now been moved to Black Op status."

"Sherlock is the only one I can trust with this, Miss Romanoff." Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor and stared at her, a grave expression on his face. "I'm sure you can understand the need for discretion?"

"He needs a partner." Fury said quietly.

"I work alone." Natasha closed the file and placed it on the table, her gaze shifting between the two men.

"You've worked with Agent Barton in the past." Mycroft countered. "Budapest, was it?"

"That was an exception, and with good reason." Natasha met the man's stare with a steady one of her own. "You must know some pretty important people in the British government to pull this off."

"He is the British government."

Natasha straightened and turned to look at the source of the deep baritone voice.

"When he's not busy being MI6 or the CIA on a freelance basis." He nodded at the two men in greeting before shifting steely gray-blue eyes her way.

She could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he appraised her and she crossed her arms over her chest while she did the same.

He was sharp, and focused, but quick with his assessment. His movements were controlled now, but she suspected he wasn't a man who conserved energy when he was on the move. A flair for the dramatic was right. He knew who she was, and he knew her skill set, but he wasn't overly eager to prove himself. Not really a talker, but that was a good thing. He played his cards close to the chest, but she could tell he had a weakness. Hid it well, though. Susceptible to some, but not all, forms of manipulation, specifically not suceptible to seduction.

This man could be an asset; he just needed to prove it.

"You were born in Russia, but your accent is barely noticeable, really not at all, except for very few words, and even then, only to the educated ear. You've been trained since childhood, and so you are an expert marksman, seductress and hacker. Also an expert in various forms of martial arts, as well as ballet." He paused, considering that last bit of information. "You specialize in covert operations, but that wasn't always the case. For a while you were a gun for hire, and an effective one, until this organization recruited you, or rather you chose to be recruited, and you've been working for them ever since. Clever, lethal, and with no emotions to speak of, you are the perfect killing machine. Did I leave anything out?"

"My file is Classified."

"I don't need your file."

They stared at each other, and Natasha could detect the slight smirk on Fury's face out of the corner of her eye. He knew she'd take the mission.

"I'll do it." She told Mycroft, and the man assented with a slight nod of his head.

Natasha glanced at Sherlock as she brushed past him. "We leave within the hour."

* * *

Mycroft would only accompany them as far as Florence. After that, they were essentially on their own, radio silence being the order of the day until extraction time. The point of him coming at all had been a preliminary debriefing in the airplane conference room before they were officially deployed.

The Op itself was a fairly simple smash and grab, except without the smashing, if all went according to plan. Sensitive information regarding the British government, all of it housed in a flash drive, safely tucked away in a dark corner within the Mark's mansion. Simple. Easy. They should be in and out.

Natasha sat in one of the plush chairs set up in the conference room, eyeing Sherlock with annoyance. Mycroft rattled off the information with his usual calm indifference, but Natasha was focused on something else. Despite his sharp observations, and surprisingly accurate deductions, Sherlock was a whirlwind and not in a good way, as far as she was concerned. She hoped it wouldn't be a problem once they touched ground, but she couldn't help being concerned.

Where Natasha's movements were carefully controlled in order to conserve energy, Sherlock's were restless and dramatic. He'd drum his fingers or bounce his legs, seemingly careless about keeping himself in check for what lay ahead. She tore her eyes away from him, now nearly bouncing in his chair, and looked at Mycroft.

"A flash drive." Natasha confirmed. "And you're sure he has it?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft replied seriously. "One of our agents has confirmed its existence, we just don't know where it is. That's why he's here, among other reasons."

Mycroft nodded towards Sherlock, and both brothers exchanged a look. There was something like sibling rivalry there, but there was something else too. Irrelevant, really, and Natasha discarded the deduction as quickly as it popped into her head.

"And I'm essentially back-up and distraction." Natasha finished for him, tapping her fingers on the table once and standing up from her chair. This was a walk in the park, compared to what she usually did. If it weren't for the man on the other side of the table, she might've refused outright. Not even SHIELD could've forced her to take a mission she didn't want to take. It was part of the deal.

"That's correct." Mycroft nodded, rising out of his chair as well and buttoning his suit coat. "I'll leave you both to work out the details."

Natasha nodded, fixing her eyes on him as he left the room before shifting them over to Sherlock. He was looking at her with open curiosity now, gauging her behavior and storing it away.

"Ground rules." Natasha announced, and Sherlock nodded, waiting for her to continue. "We don't make decisions without the other. Everything needs to be consulted except for time-sensitive decisions, and even those we'll work out beforehand as far as possible."

"Fair. Next?" Sherlock replied.

"If we need to engage, you follow my lead." She continued, and Sherlock hesitated before agreeing with a sharp nod.

Natasha replied in kind and started walking out of the room when he suddenly spoke up.

"I have ground rules of my own." He said.

Natasha paused with her hand on the doorknob, and turned to look at him. She waited.

"You don't keep sensitive information from me."

"Alright."

"And we stay out of each other's heads."

"Reasonable." Natasha quirked a brow, letting her eyes roam over his face as she assessed him again. Ground rules. For her. She'd taken people down for a lot less than that in the past. "Anything else?"

"We'll need to trust each other for this to work." He leaned forward, his hands beneath his chin.

"I don't trust anyone." Natasha's reply was flat and emotionless. She met his eyes and stared him down.

"New ground rule." He said after a few minutes of tense silence. "We don't lie to each other for the duration of this mission."

They looked closely at each other, the new information forcing them to size each other up with new eyes. It was a simple job, as far as these kinds of jobs went, but their lives were still on the line. Trust would be paramount. Finally he smirked and she allowed her mouth to lift up at the corner.

"I'll make another exception." Natasha said finally.

"As will I."

* * *

The party was in full swing by the time the couple arrived at the mansion.

The ballroom, seemingly big enough to hold the entire population of a small country, was filled with people ranging from the highest government officials to the most influential underground players. The champagne flowed; the music played; and people mixed together in a large, apparently unending mass. It was a minefield for the careless wanderer, but the couple making its way through the crowd was anything but.

The woman wore a long gold sequined dress tailored close to the body. The shimmery quality complimented her skin tone to perfection, but the real showpiece was her hair. It was long, shiny and fiery red. Her confident blue eyes scanned the crowd with what would appear to most people as arrogance or disdain. It was alluring in a dangerous sort of way.

The man beside her wore a similar look on his face; his lean form cut a striking contrast against the woman hanging from his arm. He wore a sharp tuxedo, sporting a color palette of black with the occasional accent in muted gold. They matched perfectly, right down to the ice-cold blue eyes; except where her hair was an unusual bright red, his' was a silky raven black.

Everything about them commanded attention, and to a few perceptive eyes scattered across the room, even fear. They would not go unnoticed.

The crowd made way, closing behind them as they neared the center of the dance floor where the man, delicately grasping the woman's hand, pushed her out in a graceful twirl. Her dress caught the light, causing a quiet murmur to ripple across the crowd standing closest to them. The man pulled her back in and began a slow moving waltz. Gradually, people resumed their previous activities, moving to the rhythm of the music and falling into step as if waking up from a dream.

Noticing the shift in attention, the man scanned the dancing couples around them before leaning down to whisper in her ear. "He's standing on the second floor veranda to your left." He paused, shifting his eyes around the room, marking the different doors and corridors the veered off into the heart of the mansion. "I've got four—no, three—possible places where the flash drive could be hidden." He spun them both around, guiding the woman around the dance floor. "Give me a minute, I'll narrow it down."

"Is he looking?" The red haired woman turned her face toward him in a way that would appear intimate to most onlookers. It wasn't.

"Hard not to." He replied, tucking his head low so that is appeared as if he were nuzzling her neck. "You need him to take you to his bedroom, it is the likeliest hiding place. His clothes and posture suggest he doesn't trust even those closest to him, but he will make an exception for what he deems as a weak or broken woman. The watch and haircut betray apathy, if not absolute loathing of technology in general. This man is what most people would term old fashioned, even when logic would dictate that a modern approach would be the most effective way to safeguard the information. Penchant for fine cigars, classic jazz and mistreating women." He paused, his voice lowering to an almost inaudible whisper. "Nearsighted. Limp in his right leg. Nervous tick in his left hand and eye, possibly from errant shrapnel the last time his mansion was attacked. He's coming our way."

That was her cue.

Immediately, the red haired woman pushed against the man's chest before slapping him across the face. Her face contorted into a mask of anger, and her eyes welled up with tears. He placed a hand against his cheek and stared at her with an openly pleading look. It was almost believable.

"You bastard!" She yelled, stumbling away from him and colliding with the man that had stepped up behind her. "How could you!"

She threw a glance over her shoulder as a set of hands closed around her arms to steady her, but she barely paid it any attention.

"Darling, you're making a scene, if you could—"

"I have every right to make a scene!" She yelled back. His voice was quiet, but he sounded desperate. Now people were crowding around them again, the music fading into a faint distraction from the show taking place before them. People always loved a bit of drama.

The woman ripped her arms from the grasping hands and stormed off the dance floor. She didn't need to look back to know what was happening behind her. She would be followed, and he'd be escorted out of the mansion in a matter of minutes. Ducking into the bathroom, the woman locked herself inside one of the stalls and waited until she heard the quiet _click_ in her ear and the hushed thrum of the small wireless earpiece tucked inside.

"Mr. Holmes." She whispered, a beat before she heard the door to the bathroom open and close with a dull thud. They were here.

The deep voice that spoke into her ear almost made her smile. Almost. "Call me Redbeard."

* * *

Everyone breaks in the end; it's only a matter of choosing the correct method of destruction.

The man currently lying prostrate beneath Natasha, for instance, had succumbed to a mild case of taking the wrong woman into his bedroom for some late night sex and mutilation. Nikolas Tavoularis. His breathing was ragged and his eyes bloodshot as he stared up at her with a look that conveyed both loathing and incredulity.

The power of a well cut gown and a pretty face. Pathetic.

Natasha's dress rode up her thighs as she straddled him, the look of fear and apprehension she'd used to gain access to the bedroom gone in the blink of an eye. Nikolas had been greedy with his advances, taking full advantage of what he deemed as a pathetic, fragile woman. That was a mistake. Her features bore nothing but calm and cold calculation now.

"You won't get away with this." He gasped, taking shallow breaths as he clutched at his chest. The culpable syringe lay on the bed just a small distance to the side where Natasha had discarded it not a minute before. She ignored him, searching his pockets for what she already knew she'd find, courtesy of the rogue pirate currently making his way to her location. "You have no idea what's at stake! It's death you're stealing, no—"

Natasha pressed one hand to his mouth as she fished out the small key from a hidden pocket inside the man's trousers and held it up to his face. "I've already gotten away with it."

Nikolas' face reddened, his eyes clouding over before they rolled back into his head and he slumped against the mattress. Finally. She'd begun to think he'd never shut up.

"Do you have it?" Sherlock's voice crackled in her ear, and Natasha slid off the man on the bed with a sort of cat-like finesse. Her dress fell back into the golden column it had been before, and she eyed the small silver key in her hand.

"I do. Approximate time of arrival?" She closed her fingers around it, turning to search the room for the corresponding keyhole.

"I'm here." Sherlock stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His eyes flicked over the room, quickly deducing the events leading up to his timely appearance. He nodded once when he was done and held out a small duffel bag to Natasha before turning to face the door. "I trust that everything we need is in there?"

"Correct." Natasha changed out of the gold-sequined dress, no longer practical for what lay ahead of them, and slipped into her usual black suit. She strapped the Widow's Bite to her wrists and secured her guns around her hips and thighs before she indicated that he could turn around. "There's something in there for you too."

"Oh? You're finally trusting me with a gun?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, turning around and assessing her before he took the open bag.

"We can live without the sarcasm." Natasha stared at him, and he pointed to a small painting among the ones that hung in the far wall of the bedroom without so much as glancing up at her. The safe.

"I don't think we can." Sherlock pulled out a beautiful set of guns that Natasha had chosen from her own collection, more for practical purposes than show, but she'd taken his 'dramatic flair' into consideration when making the choice. He studied the weapons with the proper amount of appreciation. "This is generous of you."

"Might as well make this fun." Natasha replied with a small frown. While he'd been busy with the guns, she'd been busy deciphering the complicated series of locks on the small safe hidden behind the painting. The key was only a small part. "Open the door. We'll need to be quick."

Natasha didn't have to tell him twice. The opening of the safe would set about an otherwise preventable reaction, but they were fresh out of time. There was only one way to walk out of the place with the flash drive. Engaging was necessary.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

* * *

The initial idea had been something stealthy and clean cut, but once in the thick of things, the situation had made that a problematic course of action. There were no miscalculations on their part. The event that set things into motion had been impossible for them to know, and difficult to prevent without the proper information.

As it turned out, Nikolas Tavoularis was right to be paranoid. Plenty of people wanted him out of the way; even more wanted the information he was sitting on. They'd chosen that particular night to make their feelings known.

The shower of bullets and explosives that racked through the colossal mansion had not been aimed at either Sherlock or Natasha, but that didn't mean they could easily navigate through it. They'd depended on Natasha's skill and Sherlock's strategy oriented mind in order to make it out unscathed, and even then there had been close calls.

A quick pull into a side corridor had saved Sherlock from a few lethal bullet holes in his chest. A sudden tackle into a nearby room had been instrumental in ensuring Natasha hadn't been marred by an imposing but unpredictable wave of shrapnel as they'd raced through the last of the corridors. Twice they'd had to cover each other's backs; a challenge for any agent used to working alone, even more so for the two people reluctantly thrown together for this particular task.

Not so reluctant now.

Once they'd reached the extraction point, they'd eyed each other with something neither of them expected to gain from the mission. Breathing heavily, and sporting a few fresh cuts to the skin exposed by their gear, they'd both recognized it instantly. Respect.

"Didn't I mention the need for discretion before?" Mycroft Holmes had greeted them with the question the moment they'd set foot inside the plane. Natasha noted the look of annoyance that crossed Sherlock's features and she turned an icy set of eyes to the elder Holmes.

"Dead men tell no tales." She'd said simply. "I'm sure there's nothing more discreet than that."

Mycroft Holmes had looked at her like he'd wanted to retort but he wisely held himself in check. Unlike his brother, Natasha held no qualms about using physical force to put him in his proper place at the slightest provocation. The short conversation had caused Sherlock to chuckle beside her, and she spared him the shortest of glances before pushing past them into the cockpit.

"So how was it?" Clint didn't look up from what he was doing when she stepped inside the small cabin and collapsed into one of the chairs.

"Not as bad as Budapest." Natasha quipped, closing her eyes and tilting her head back until it was touching the back of the chair. She wasn't planning on staying for long, but she needed a break. And something familiar.

"And him?" Natasha could tell he was looking at her now, even with her eyes closed. She smirked.

"Not as bad as I thought." She replied with a small shrug. Clint chuckled, and Natasha suppressed the urge to drop a courtesy punch onto his arm on her way out.

"Told you so."

Natasha ignored the comment as she disappeared from the room.

* * *

It was just the two of them as they walked off the plane. They both looked world-weary and exhausted, but were otherwise in good spirits. Successful missions had that effect on most agents, and Sherlock Holmes was no exception.

Natasha sighed with relief when her feet finally touched solid ground. She was used to the traveling, and there was no place she could call home anymore, but if there was, this was as close to it as it would ever get.

Raising a hand to shield her eyes, Natasha squinted against the early morning sunlight. In the distance she could see a black sedan, sleek and shiny as its door eased open to let out a petite woman with long brown hair and a bright smile. It was a curious thing about human nature, the way most people would project the entirety of their emotions on their face. People like Sherlock Holmes guarded against this almost constantly, but that was not the case now. Natasha looked at Sherlock and studied his features with interest.

It was etched into every line of his face.

This woman, whomever she was, was his safe haven, and he kept her safely tucked away and separate from the work he did. Natasha could almost believe it admirable, even if it was something she couldn't quite imagine for herself. Whenever she'd considered it as an option before, it had appeared as a weakness to her. However, seeing it in him now somehow made it seem like it had all the makings of fortitude.

"So that's her." Natasha stated, looking at the woman with an appraising look. She was pretty, and light, and everything that the he wasn't. It was a study in opposites and their tendency to attract. They were counterweights, she realized. For once, she could see the logic in it.

"Molly." He confirmed after a pause, and the way he said her name sounded almost like a prayer. Natasha suspected that if he were ever a religious man, there was only one person he'd fall down on his knees for, and it would be her. It was the very definition of power.

"I didn't think you'd admit to that." She replied, knowing he hadn't openly admitted to anything. It was his demeanor.

There was a moment of realization as Sherlock went from open and relaxed to guarded and suspicious.

"Admit to what?" He asked, a veil of confusion coming over his features. Natasha gave him a long look before finally breaking out into a rare smile. The sudden shift was impressive.

"It's been an adventure, Mr. Holmes." She said finally.

"Indeed it has, Miss Romanoff." Sherlock gave her a brief nod, surveying her one last time before giving her a small smile and walking away.

He didn't waste any time, and Molly ran up to meet him with sheer unadulterated happiness. Sherlock dropped his bag from his shoulder and opened his arms for her, catching her in midair and burying his face in her hair as he twirled her around.

"Can't really picture it, can you?" Clint climbed down from the plane and came to stand beside her, arms crossed over his chest. Natasha looked at him before turning her attention back to the happy couple.

"No." She said honestly. "I can't."

She waved them off as they got into the car and drove away. Back to a normal life, or as normal as life could be when you were married to a man like that. Natasha raised her hand to her chest; absently toying with the small arrow pendant she now wore around her neck.

"You like him." Clint stated, unnervingly accurate in his ability to read her. She respected Sherlock. Admired him, even. But then, for people like her and Clint, respect and admiration amounted to 'liking' someone anyway. "Admit it."

Natasha turned around and brushed past him, the ghost of a smile twisting her lips.

She would admit to no such thing.


End file.
